


Fairy Pools

by LithiumCrystal



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Dream Sex, Fae & Fairies, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumCrystal/pseuds/LithiumCrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes are so pretty he’d best watch out the fairies don’t steal him away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Pools

**Author's Note:**

> A friend and I were basically discussing Chris Pine's eye colour and how they're too pretty and he's probably either a fairy or will get kidnapped by fairies at some point. This weird fic came out of it. I am so sorry Mr. Pine for writing about you getting gang-banged by mythical creatures. Kinda.

He is told that his eyes are so pretty he’d best watch out the faeries don’t steal him away.  
  
He just smirks and laughs at his friend’s gentle ribbing, dog-earring his place in the script they’re reading before changing the subject.  
  
They do not speak of it again.  
  
-  
  
One night he dreams he is conscious yet not truly awake as long moss-tinted fingers comb curiously through his hair, drifting across his skin, leaving an electric tingle in their wake. He is afraid yet he is not as they pull the clothes from his body, baring more of his skin to the cool, damp air as he is kissed and touched and caressed almost reverently.  
  
_“Pretty eyes, pretty skin’_ they sing in their strange, ethereal voices; pitched high like breaking glass _“let us keep you, pretty thing; let us keep you here in the dark...”_  
  
They lay him down upon a bed of stone but it does not feel hard against his skin and his head lolls back, resting upon their knees. A drifting touch down his thighs and a sharp lick of heat has his legs falling open around them, has them laughing in delight; the sound is dark-bright and he imagines pinpricks of stars in the black night sky.  
  
And he wants... He wants, he _wants_.  
  
In their arms he is warm, pliant and eager as fingers drift to his mouth, then inside, stroking against his teeth. He sucks the bitter-earth taste from those mossy digits, coats his tongue in it and swallows down, moaning for more. Pleased chitters fill the air and their voices hum across his skin  
  
_“Pretty pretty pretty...”_ they chant.  
  
A trail of liquid pours sticky and sweet down the valley of his thighs and his legs are pushed up and up until his knees hook over slim hips. Fingers move against him, slowly pushing in deep like a stone sinking into the depths of a river. He cannot ever remember feeling this hard, cannot ever remember feeling so open and so bared; once more the voices around him buzz in cruel amusement and wanton delight.  
  
And still he wants, and still it is not enough.  
  
The air is filled with the damp smell of earth, the sticky burnt sugar of sap and the leaf mould aroma of forest floors. He whimpers softly; a plea for the void inside him to be filled and the voices coo gently as long-fingered hands spread his thighs further apart  
  
_“Yes, pretty thing; give yourself up to us...”_  
  
The fingers inside him are replaced with an obliging blunt pressure and he moans his contentment as he is filled; his body feels spread so far open that it should be painful, yet there is only relief as the void inside turns to heat.  
  
He is kissed, softly upon his eyelids and brow, firmer against the swell of his mouth and the hard buds of his nipples. They are patient, steady as they take him apart; hands cradle his hips, moving them slowly into the thrusts of the body between his legs and he feels as though he could lay there forever at the mercy of mossy fingers and the intimate ache within  
  
_“Ours, pretty thing, ours always...”_  
  
His hands are caught and pulled up, pinned above his head against the cool stone he lies upon. The thrusts inside him become harsh and wicked, the slap of skin on skin a stinging sweetness that punches helpless whimpers out of him. They laugh and silence him with more kisses and ghosting touches across his hard length as it smears trails of wetness across his belly. Sharp teeth nip his ears and cool tongues lave the hollow of his throat, the tip of his cock; teasing, coaxing. He is falling apart in their hands, no longer certain where he ends and they begin.  
  
Muscles tense in his thighs and it is far too hard to hold back; his knees grip tight around the body between them and he’s coming, pulsing his release hotly across his skin. The voices murmur in satisfaction, soft sighs that seem to wrap around him like a caress. He is loose, heavy-limbed and although the stone is solid against his back he feels as if he is underwater, sinking slowly into the deep. They hold him, anchor him there until suddenly molten heat spills inside him, licking up his walls and he would cry out with the feeling if it had not robbed him of air. The voices whisper no less amused but now sated, sighing.  
  
_“Good, pretty thing, good; you may sleep now...”_  
  
He doesn’t wish to leave their embrace but the darkness feels so heavy now; it is as if the stone falls away and he is floating gently down, deeper... deeper...  
  
_“Sleep...”_  
  
-  
  
When he awakens he does not remember his dream.  
  
One day later someone comments that his eyes are exactly the same colour as the fairy pools at Glenbrittle. Although he tries to laugh it off something in him aches gently, like a phantom limb; a strange pain as if a part of him is missing.    
  
At the edge of his memory, mossy fingers dance across hot skin and the taste of bitter earth clings heavy on his tongue...


End file.
